ACT I. / whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same. timeline: pre episode 7 / 8
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I / AEMOND & RHEA WATERS.
Perhaps they were not cradled by the same dawn, nor did the same light warm their nascent forms. Like the collision of winter's frost with summer's blaze, autumn's decay with spring's rebirth, fire's dance with water's weaves—so disparate, so alien were their worlds—fire and water, day and night—each a universe apart. Yet, despite the chasms of existence that spanned between their distant worlds, in the end, their path converged. For after all, she was the moon to his sun, he was the earth to her sky; they were each other's inevitable return.
He had not yet realized it, nor did he suspect that he had ever truly seen her, but she was there—always there, like a whisper in the wind. She was the warmth that kissed his skin when the sun spilled its golden rays across the heavens, like an artist's brush sweeping across a canvas. It was her presence that banished the deep chill that had long festered in his heart, even as his blood stained the ground, seeping from the fresh wounds on his back—another cruel gift from his father's unforgiving hand.
He did not yet know, but she was the breath of fresh air that filled his lungs, the sweet breeze that soothed his soul, sweeping away the acrid stench of blood and the charred remnants of his torment. She was the balm to his suffering, the light in his darkness, the hope that lingered just beyond the horizon, waiting for the moment when he would finally see her, truly see her, and know that she had been with him all along.
And she might not yet comprehend the truth that he had never truly parted from her, that there was no moment, no breath of time, in which he was not there—her brother, her sentinel, her unwavering protector. Though her gaze, blurred by the distance of years and sorrows, painted him as distant, he was as near to her as the strands of her own hair, closer still than the pulse that beat within her chest.
Bruised knees kissed by shadows, unseen and tender, wounds hidden deep within, met with the quiet strength to endure. Lost paths wandered in despair, only to be gently guided back to the warmth of home—he was there, always there, an unseen guardian, a silent protector, woven into her, like the way their mother wove her hair into a braid. Through every tear unshed, every silent cry, he was the steady hand that never faltered, the whisper in the night that led her safely through the dark.
The sun was always destined to meet the moon at the edge of the day, where the sky blushes with their parting kiss. And the moon, ever patient, was fated to find the sun again, in the tender hour of dawn. Just as autumn must slip into the lingering warmth of summer, painting the world in hues of amber and gold, so too must winter follow, whispering the quiet promise of rest.
And then, as if in a breath held too long, spring bursts forth, continuing the story, weaving winter into summer's embrace once more. And each turn of the earth, and each rise and fall of light, is naught but a tale of their returns —Rhea will always find him, and Aemond will always find her.
[ in which the gods endeavour to reunite the lost twins. ]
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"Death is nothing at all. / It does not count. / I have only slipped away into the next room. / Nothing has happened. /Everything remains exactly as it was. / I am I, and you are you, / and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. / Whatever we were to each other, that we are still."
—— Henry Scott-Holland, "Death Is Nothing at All."
